


The Prophecies Didn’t Foresee That One.

by sorrens



Series: Hogwarts Bound [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Beez is non binary, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley has a pet snake, Friends to Lovers, Gabriel is a dick, Homophobia, Hufflepuff & Slytherin Inter-House Friendships, Hufflepuff!Crowley, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Slytherin!aziraphale, but thats just a given by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: Crowley's the last of his family to commence at Hogwarts. He arrives with his pet snake, green robes and overwhelming certainty in his fate before bumping into an angel whose presence sets his life on a different course.





	1. The Prophecies Didn’t Foresee That One.

The Crowley family arrived at Platform 9 3/4 as a party of vibrant green amongst the sea of black cloaks.

Beez had made Hogwarts history as being the first student head of house whose title claimed them neither “Head Boy” or “Head Girl”.

They sneered at the masses of first years scrambling through the crowd, managing to exude an air of intimidation despite being shorter than most 12 year olds.

There had been much conjecture at the Crowley’s dinner table the past few weeks, as to whether Beez had a cis gender counterpart, or whether they were saddled with twice the responsibility.

“It’z far easier not having to consult with an idiot.” They’d replied hopefully.

Regardless of gender, Beez did not believe they had a house mate up to the task.

“_Shit_,”

A head of silvery hair had popped out of the crowd.

Ligur was waving at them, whilst gesturing wildly at the shiny head girl badge pinned to her robe.

The two Crowley boys were left behind as Beez muscled their way through the crowd. Hastur, built like a bean stalk, white hair scruffy and matted, was already looking around for his forth year friends.

“Wait, where are you going?” The younger boy reached out and tugged at Hastur’s arm as he made to disappear in to the crowd. “Mum said you had to stay with me.”

Hastur shook the arm off and glared at his brother.

“You’ll be fine, just blend in.” He poked at the red head’s Slytherin robes. “Find your people.” And then disappeared. Leaving Anthony Crowley alone with his sleek black trunk, cage, and potted orchid* to be buffeted around in the crowd.

_*Breeding orchids was a muggle hobby that Anthony had taken to, much to his parent's dismay. This was the first in a litany of disappointments, but they weren't to know that._

“Find your people,”

The boy ran a hand through his shoulder length hair and squared his shoulders, unsure of where to start.

Though people, it seemed, would come to him.

“Oof—“ he felt a trolley hit the small of his back, sending him stumbling forward.

“I’m very sorry!” A worried voice rung out and Anthony turned to see a boy his age, wearing plain black robes driving the cart.

He had a halo of soft white hair that almost glowed. Nothing like what Hastur sported. His eyes were forget-me-not blue and his luggage, it seemed, was mostly books. In fact, undoubtably the reason he’d lost control of the trolley in the first place was due to him guiding it with one hand whilst the other gripped a ridiculously old book to his chest.

“My mum left me at the barrier.” The boy had a pained expression. “And I just, have a rather lot to carry,”

Anthony stepped forward and pried the book from the boy’s grasp, noting how reluctantly he gave it up.

“I’ll carry it for you.” He stacked it on top of Sally’s cage and, with a complicated manoeuvre, succeeded in hauling all of the items on the the nearest carriage.

“Oh, okay,” the boy lifted up his own trunks and followed. They quickly found an unoccupied carriage. Anthony made himself busy putting his orchid in a safe spot near the window and securing his bags. The other boy was just standing in the entranceway, staring.

At Crowley’s robes.

“So, you’re in Slytherin?” The boy sidled in meekly.

“Wha— oh not yet.” Anthony waved a hand distractedly. “First year, so I haven’t been sorted but… runs in the family.”

He could see the boy eyeing Sally as he sat gingerly opposite him.

“This is Sally, short for Salazar, she’s my snake!” Anthony hoisted up the cage proudly and the boy visibly cowered.

“She’s not scary or anything.” Sally was, if Hastur was to be consulted, rather underwhelming for a snake. When the family had gone to get their youngest one, he’d fallen in love with the smallest in the shop. Sally was jet black and could coiled around the boy’s forearm but “wasn’t intimidating,” and maybe his parents had looked slightly disappointed at his choice, but they allowed it all the same.

“I’ll take your word for it, dear.”

Anthony shot the boy a quizzical look. Who talked like that these days?

“My name’s Anthony Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” the boy reached out to shake his hand.

Anthony spluttered.

“What kind of name is that?” The boy shrugged.

“Nah, I can’t call you that, it’s too complicated. What’s your last name?”

Aziraphale didn’t quite make eye contact.

“Angel.” He huffed. Anthony snickered.

“My god, Angel it is.”

⁂

They settled down in to an awkward silence as the last stragglers boarded the train. Surprisingly, nobody else sought to invade their compartment. Perhaps it was the work of Sally, staring down all potential intruders. Hastur didn’t find her very intimidating, but if one were to survey the entire student body, they would provide a different assessment.

“So,” Aziraphale cleared his throat slightly. “You think you’ll be in Slytherin?”

“I know I’ll be in Slytherin.” Anthony said confidently. It was a given. If anyone was looking to start a fraudulent career in fortune telling they might as well predict the outcome of this sorting to claim as their first successful prophecy. Besides, the actual prophets, Anthony thought smugly, wouldn’t want to waste prophecies on the obvious.

There was a pained expression on the other boy’s face.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people.” Anthony scoffed.

The boy shook his head, but his expression betrayed him.

“Jesus Christ.” Anthony slammed his hand down on the top of Sally’s cage, causing Aziraphale to jump. “We’re in the god dammed 21st century and you still think that we’re evil or something?”

He glowered.

“No, it’s not— it’s just—“ Aziraphale scrambled to put appropriate words together, failing completely.

“My brother said not to trust Slytherins.” He said defensively.

“And who’s your brother? Obviously not Mr. Head of House relations.”

Aziraphale’s face creased in a small smile.

“Well, no. My brother is Gabriel. He’s a prefect, for, for Gryffindor.”

Anthony snorted.

“Oh, right, so that’s how it’s going to be. Mr. Holier than Thou, okay.”

He reclined back as the train began to pull away from the platform, propping his boots on the seat beside Aziraphale.

“I hardly think that I’m _holier_—“ squeaked Aziraphale. Anthony couldn't help but chuckle watching the boy get so flustered.

“S’a joke, angel.”

“Oh,” he visibly relaxed. “Oh, my book!” He sprung up and searched around wildly. Anthony made the poor choice to casually toss the heavy tome across to him.

“Oops, sorry.” Aziraphale doubled over in pain as the book hit in him the stomach.

“No worries, just wanted to make sure it was safe.” He sat down again and patted the cover gently, almost like…

“Speaking of safe.” Crowley sat up slightly. “Don’t you think you’ve maybe left your owl behind?”

The boy looked back at him blankly.

“Cat?” He tried again.

“Toad? Oh, please angel don’t tell me you bought a toad?” He groaned. Aziraphale waved away his concern.

“No, no. No pet for me. Well…” he trailed off, eyeing the book on his lap. “I had an owl but…”

⁂

Anthony hadn’t stopped laughing for the last 10 minutes. Aziraphale, all the while, trying to defend his decision to swap his barn owl of a first edition of “Hogwarts, A History” with a sixth year on the platform earlier.

“You gave it away?” He cackled.

The other boy huffed.

“No, Anthony. I traded it. It was a fair trade.”

Anthony eyed the stained book in his lap and bit back a plethora of sarcastic comments that came to mind.

“Okay, okay,” he held his arms up in surrender, and the compartment lapsed in to silence once more. This time, it was almost comfortable.

Whilst Aziraphale certainly had his house preferences, and Slytherin was not one of them, he did have to admit that he was slightly jealous of the boy now napping opposite him. He had one thing that Aziraphale craved, that was certainty. It had been all up in the air for the boy since he’d received his letter. Of course, it would be ideal if he ended up in Gryffindor with his brother. He fidgeted with the book on his lap. He wasn’t particularly brave, Gabriel was quick to remind him of that fact. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he ended up in Ravenclaw, he heard they had a lovely private library. In amongst all the uncertainty, these were the only two options that his brain allowed him to entertain.

⁂

They exited the carriage in to the chilling night, Anthony once again insisting on carrying Aziraphale’s extra book. A bellow of “First Years” guided them through the darkness and their first view of the castle came as the fleet of boats rounded the corner of the Great Lake.

Aziraphale gave an excited little squeal, which made Anthony snigger. Little was his new friend to know that there’d been talk in the Angel family about whether Aziraphale would be invited to attend. There was something unremarkable about him, his father had often said. Of course, he’d meant squib-like.

“This is like a dream come true!”

Anthony looked over at the pure excitement on the boy’s face and softened a little. From their talk he knew that Aziraphale came from a half-blood family, magic was allowed, this was no great revelation like the mutterings of the muggle borns on board. But something about the expression of the boy as he talked of home, felt cold and detached and suddenly made Anthony a little glad that every once in a while Beez bothered with him. It also made him a bit sad.

⁂ 

They filed in to the Great Hall, Aziraphale and Anthony the first waiting to be sorted. The other students muttered and peeked out at the new offerings. From across the room Anthony heard an obnoxious “Wahoo!” and turned to see Hastur and his cronies waving at him. He shrunk down behind Aziraphale slightly. He squeezed his friend’s hand as McGonagall called out

“Aziraphale Angel,”

There was a polite smattering of applause from the Gryffindor table, perhaps the closest Gabriel had ever gotten to showing his younger brother affection.

The boy stumbled forward and placed the hat on his head.

He looks like an angel, Anthony thought to himself. Despite the grotty hat perched atop his halo of curls, Aziraphale just sort of glowed. With goodness, or something, Anthony wasn’t good at identifying these things, being a…

“Slytherin!”

_Yes, that was it._

No, no, no, he was pulled from his thoughts as a thunderous applause swept from the Slytherin table. Aziraphale, hat in hand, looked like he was about to cry. Shaking his head in disbelief, he met Anthony’s eyes, pleading for something.

Shocked, but ready to make the best of the situation, Anthony gave him an encouraging smile. _Hey, we’ll be together after all._ He tried to project the thoughts directly in to the boy’s brain. _This is great._

Aziraphale was shaking as he made his way over to his new house.

It’s fine. Anthony felt a small spark of hope. His stomach turned at having to be friends with a Gryffindor. “_Having to be_” because he wasn’t giving up on the angel that easily. But now, it was going to be better. They were going to be together.

He marched up to the stool and jammed the hat on his head.

Hmmm quite confident aren’t we? It muttered slyly.

_Yes, Slytherin, of course._ Anthony could even make his thoughts come off as sarcastic.

Did you just roll your eyes young man? The hat huffed.

_Maybe._

Hmmm, right.

Anthony started to get antsy, it felt like he’d been sitting there forever already.

All things considered, looking in to this head of yours, it best be—“

Anthony’s senses must have short-circuited because, next thing, there’s an uproar and McGonagall is taking the hat from him and guiding him towards his house table and a sea of yellow is cheering him on. _Wait._ Cheering because they were glad he wasn’t in their house? _Obviously_. He tried to steer himself towards the Slytherin table, but they were all glaring at him. Down the back he swore Hastur was giving him the finger. At the head of the table, Aziraphale sat wide eyed, shaking his head at his friend.

Anthony’s head dropped through the solid oak floor.

No.

Then his brain caught up, and he could hear the hat’s cry of “Hufflepuff” echoing off the walls. His stomach twisted and he shuffled over to his new house mates. As he dropped in to a seat, students in yellow ties began clapping him on the back enthusiastically.

“Hey, mate.” A boy sitting across from him, brown hair sticking up at awkward angles and glasses askew leaned forward. “You alright?”

Anthony grappled with the speech centre of his brain for a few seconds before choking out the best he could manage

“Yeah, it’s tickity-boo.”

⁂ 

In their spare time, the Sorting Hat spent many hours composing a song for the start of the next school year. This meant a lot of time spent trawling through dictionaries, lamenting the lack of words rhyming with “chivalry” and the like. They’d taken a fancy to some words over the centuries. Their sorting decisions were, of course, the topic of much contention amongst students and teachers alike. They felt it was below them to explain their methodology, so anytime a student came to ask about their decision making, the hat would reply with this:

“My sorting process is ineffable.”


	2. Family and Other Fickle Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's robes get set alight at the Start of Term feast. Crowley grapples with disappointing his family. Aziraphale gets adopted by some Slytherins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thank you for all the love on my first instalment.  
What I love about the duo is you could theoretically argue for any house placing because they're such complex characters. I ascribe to the idea that Aziraphale is a "secondary" Ravenclaw and Crowley is a "secondary" Slytherin but that's irrelevant to the present story. Hopefully as the story progresses you can start to see my intention in sorting them as I did, it's really important to further the plot (that I haven't quite figured out yet shush) and I think it'll be an interesting dynamic making them face their own issues and losses.
> 
> I've decided to stick to chapters for each school year, so these first chapters will chronicle their first year. :)

Anthony had resolutely avoided eye contact with anyone on the Slytherin table during the feast the night before.

His empathy for Aziraphale had been eclipsed by a blind panic with regards to his own fate.

Looking down forlornly at his treacle tart, the boy had been certain he’d heard Hastur’s jeers from the nearby table. Anthony wasn’t the black sheep of the family, purely because the Crowley’s refused to entertain the possibility that their own flesh and blood didn’t fit in with the family’s image.

He had always felt fragmented, as if pulled in a thousand directions, and only some of those directions were of those guided by his family. The others? He tried not to think about them. Always quick to question the value of being a pureblood family, of having a family crest and some pompous latin phrase to accompany it. Anthony was quick to question, and the other Crowley’s were quick to shut him down.

After a while, he’d given up.

There was a very fine line between family pride and general prejudice and his family had scuffed it away a long time ago. The furthered their prejudice every time they baulked at the idea of other, less pure, wizarding families and through the tone they took with acquaintances (and they were nothing more) who’d grown up as a Ravenclaw or, god forbid, a Gryffindor.

He had been trying his damned hardest to ruminate as the rest of the students enjoyed their desserts, but the boy opposite him didn’t seem to take social clues well.

“I’m Newton,” he held out his hand enthusiastically, knocking over two goblets in the process.

“Ugh,” Anthony jumped up as the butter beer soaked through his green robes.

“Oops, sorry. Probably best to take those off now, anyway.” Newt suggested. Indeed, Anthony had been attracting quite a few glares from other Hufflepuffs at the table.

“Fine, fine,” He pulled off the robe and balled it up angrily. Some of his housemates clapped. Another boy leaned forward and snatched the robe from his grasp, levitating it high about the table. Before Anthony could protest, it was ablaze, and yellow flames crackled merrily, engulfing the Slytherin robes.

“Hey, hey.” Anthony scrambled to his feet. He could see Beez on their feet, glaring at the display.

_It wasn’t me_, he thought desperately. _I wouldn’t._

“Calm down.” Said Newt and Anthony had the sudden urge to slap him.

“Calm down?! That’s my property! That’s my—“ house died on his lips and his heart dropped even further, as if seeking a tour of the dungeons.

“It’s not real fire.” He assured him. Almost if the mischief maker had heard him, the flames suddenly extinguished and the robe sailed back to its owner — now sporting a yellow trim and badger.

“We wouldn’t ruin your stuff.” Newt said pointedly as Anthony grabbed the robe (now pleasantly warm and dry) and put it back on. Though distracted, the emphasis on we was not lost on the boy. Anthony looked over at the Slytherin table. Been had yet to take their seat and still glared in his direction.

When they were ushered in to their dormitory, Anthony went straight to his four-poster bed. Before any of the other boys could talk to him, he’d pulled the covers up over his head and curled up with Sally. Though he usually would, he didn’t talk to the snake for fear the other first years would eavesdrop. Instead, Sally’s tongue occasionally grazed her owner’s face as he fell in to a disturbed sleep where his family had set a giant badger on him, and were laughing mercilessly.

⁂

He arrived at the Great Hall the next morning to find Aziraphale cowering in the entranceway, searching for a face in the crowd of diners. Anthony tapped Aziraphale’s shoulder and the boy startled. He looked even worse for wear than the Hufflepuff: eyes rimmed with purple and puffy, like he’d just been crying. He was pale in a way that the shock of seeing one’s first ghost couldn’t quite accomplish.

Anthony’s mind automatically jumped to his worst fears.

“Did they beat you up?” He left “_they_” open to the other’s interpretation. He hadn’t met or even seen Gabriel, but from what he’d heard, he could imagine him cornering his younger brother in the hallway after the feast. In Crowley’s mind, he was a thug. Or maybe it was Hastur and his mates. Aziraphale didn’t look like a Slytherin — all soft edges and warm eyes. He couldn’t be cunning or determined anymore than Anthony could be… whatever a Hufflepuff was supposed to be. He had to admit, he wasn’t quite sure he knew what that was. However, he knew he wasn’t it.

The angel was talking and Anthony realised, guilty, that he’d been stuck in his own thoughts rather than paying attention to the answer of his question:

‘ — They were really supportive. I was crying a little bit, just from shock, you know, in the common room after the feast. It’s so dark and cold in there, nothing like what I’m used to. Someone approached me. I thought they were going to beat me up.” He admitted. “But she was lovely, and we had a long chat about what it really means to be a Slytherin.”

He paused.

“Oh, I think they were a she. Darn it, I’ve really stuffed up, I forgot to ask. They had such a strange name, I wasn’t quite sure. Anyway, they said that their brother and them were always around to look out for me. How kind.”

Anthony’s insides twisted.

“Been?” Aziraphale nodded and smiled at the name.

“Yes, that’s it!”

He recalled the icy glare that his sibling had directed at him that night. Were they already replacing him with Aziraphale?

“They’re my sibling.” Anthony sighed.

Aziraphale frowned.

“Oh, they said they only had one brother, and he was a 4th year.”

Anthony bit his lip, trying not to let the anger seep in to his voice. It wasn’t the angel’s fault.

“Yeah, well they would now, wouldn’t they?” He muttered darkly.

⁂

Rather than be separated to their respective tables, the two boys skipped breakfast for a walk through the grounds. They were mostly silent, and it was a pained silence, but when they reached the lake, Aziraphale spoke.

“How’re you feeling?”

Anthony kicked a tuft of grass, slightly taken aback at the question. Why did he care? Normally, he’d be inclined to bite back with a “fine” that conveyed everything but the sentiment, but there was such a tone of concern in the angel’s voice that he all but broke.

“What the**_ actual fuck_**?” He yelled across the lake.

Aziraphale flinched, but sensed this wasn’t the time to police his friends language.

“I don’t understand. Everyone in my family is in Slytherin. Bloody hell, we are Slytherin. This is some kind of sick joke that the hat’s playing and I’ve got to fix it. My family probably wouldn’t want to even see me anymore. Not like this, they’d be disgusted.” He tugged at his robes.

“And you, angel.” He rounded on the other boy. “You with your ruddy books and your “_dear_” and your bloody saint like halo of goodness.”

This coaxed a smile to Aziraphale’s lips.

“You’re not a Slytherin.” The redhead conceded.

Aziraphale considered for a moment. All of his survival instincts were telling him to agree with Anthony, with what seemed painfully obvious. But, there was a part of him that thought differently, a seed of acceptance that had first been planted when conversing with Beez. This part of his mind was quick to commandeer his mouth.

“But I am a Slytherin, Anthony. I am now.”

The redhead hissed as a retort.

Rather than launch into an argument with his new (and arguably only) friend, Crowley changed tact.

“I never really liked Anthony.” He thought for a moment. “Would, would it be okay if you call me Crowley?”

“Okay, can I ask why?”

“Well… you know, it’ll be harder for my family to discard me after all this, if I go by the family name.”

He saw the pained expression on Aziraphale’s face.

“And I really really hate Anthony.” He reiterated.

“Okay,” Aziraphale had something else to add, but wasn’t quite sure how it’d sit with the other.

Oh, bless it. He set his shoulders and spoke to the Hufflepuff with a determination he’d withheld until now.

“You know A-Crowley, just because your family is in Slytherin, doesn’t mean it’s the right fit for you. You’re your own person, after all.”

“But I want to be like them.” He growled._ I want to be accepted._ “Besides I don’t even know what a Hufflepuff is.”

“It’s you, whoever you are.” Aziraphale said gently.

“But what does that mean?” Crowley threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know who I am, I just know that I’m a Crowley. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

“Maybe it’s time to find out.”


	3. Individualism for Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley decides to part with Sally. Aziraphale gets existential.  
Newt hones his muggle skills, despite being the son of two muggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke up the previous chapter because it was getting too long so this is a bit of an introspection/overflow from Chapter 2 but I promise the next one will be /action and angst/  
Aziraphale goes Slytherin BAMF and Crowley confronts Gabriel for his friend.

Aziraphale’s identity crisis was far more internalised than his friend’s.

On the outside, he maintained the cool exterior of one who had accepted his fate.

On the inside, though, he was still scrambling to make sense of it.

Gabriel hadn’t spoken to him since the sorting ceremony and was avoiding eye contact in the halls. Undoubtably, he’d already sent an owl off to their parents with the devastating news. If it were anyone but his parents, Aziraphale would expect to receive a howler in the mail at some point. But his family were the professional “sweep under the rug” type. There would be no biblical reign of judgement, rather, a whole lot of silence as the fall out. Given the circumstances, Aziraphale didn’t think he’d hear from them until Christmas.

Aziraphale wasn’t so misguided to believe the stereotypes that Gabriel had spent years drilling in to his brother. The assumptions his brother espoused always worked in favour of Gryffindor, shining a light on the house’s glory. Like that whole muggle saying about “the winners writing history” Gryffindor had commandeered the spotlight in the last decade — especially since the Battle of Hogwarts.

They were the ones writing the narrative, and it was hard to get away from it.

Gryffindors weren’t all brave and noble. Aziraphale privately used his brother as testament to that, a particularly unsavoury incident involving some bow truckles and a cricket bat that put Aziraphale in the muggle hospital was the first to come to mind.

Ravenclaws weren’t always wise.

He would say that Hufflepuffs weren’t always kind and loyal, but that was difficult having met Crowley — the way he jumped to help him with his books to the horror on the boy’s face when he thought Aziraphale had been bullied. Maybe there were Hufflepuffs that weren’t kind and loyal, but his new friend was decidedly not among them.

He just refused to see it.

No, the issue was this: Aziraphale was concerned (to put it lightly) that what the hat had seen in him was some kind of dormant cruelty. The boy was well-versed in ethics and philosophy, and had come to understand that worrying about one’s true nature was part of being human. But it was more than that, Aziraphale was damaged somehow. He felt rotten at the core and this rottenness was ever clawing to reach the light of day. He was aware of the sliver of selfishness in his soul, a hedonistic desired for pleasure and self-preservation that threatened to guide his choices. _Was this a corruptibility the hat saw within him that made him bad?_ Was this what had destined him for Slytherin? Unlike Crowley, he loath to challenge the ineffability of the sorting hat’s ways. There was a reason he was in Slytherin, the boy decided, and it couldn’t be good.

⁂

The friends met again in the courtyard after a particularly painful morning lesson. (History of Magic for Crowley and Defence Against the Dark Arts for Aziraphale*)

_*The latter finding their class painful because, well, he’d already covered the entire first year syllabus over the summer._

“Oh, good lord!” Aziraphale jumped backwards as he saw Sally peering out from under Crowley’s cloak. “Must you really bring her around everywhere, dear?”

The banality of Professor Binns teaching (if it can be called that) had given Crowley a dangerous amount of time to think and make a rather preposterous decision.

“Here, she’s yours now, Angel.” Sally clung to her owner as he tried to pry her off his neck.

“Do I..” Aziraphale spluttered. “Merlin’s beard Crowley, have you lost your mind? No!” The indignation was twofold:

Firstly, the boy knew that Aziraphale was terrified of Sally and would only be in the snake’s vicinity if tricked (like now).

Secondly, and most obviously… “But she’s yours and you love her.”

⁂

“She isn’t me anymore.” Crowley attempted a nonchalant shrug. His cold blooded scarf wrapped more tightly around him, as if aware that her owner were trying to give her away. As much as Crowley loved Sally, her presence was a painful reminder of what he was no.

“That’s stupid,” Aziraphale sniffed. “First of all, no, I don’t want your bloody snake.”

“Please.” Crowley valiantly tried to remove Sally from around his neck before looking away as he proffered her to Aziraphale.

Instead, he felt hands grip his shoulders and Aziraphale turned him back around, levelling his friend with a warm glare. (How on earth the boy managed that, it was just one of those uniquely Aziraphale quirks.)

Bless him, he was alarmingly close to Sally in the way he was standing and yet the angel was so focussed on his friend that he forgot to flinch.

Given the small library he’d help the boy lug to and from the Hogwarts Express, Crowley was understandably expecting some sage advice in this time of existential crisis. Maybe a quote from a great wizard or muggle philosopher. But, whilst Aziraphale had a way with words, he equally valued being succinct.

“Stop being an idiot.” He said patiently. Unsurprisingly, it was exactly what Crowley needed to hear.

“Yes, angel.” The boy meekly returned Sally to his cloak pocket and made a mental note to make up for the debacle later, maybe a nice mouse.

⁂

He found Newton in the library pouring over a muggle book on electronics.

“Curious about what they get up to?” Crowley slid in to the seat beside him.

The boy shook his head.

“No, my parents are both muggles.” He closed the book. “Big surprise when I got my letter last year. I think they thought I’d never amount to anything, now look at where I am.”

Crowley squinted at the cover.

“Then why are you reading “Computers for Dummies?”, surely you know how to use one?”

Newt looked sheepish. “My parents don’t let me near it. I tend to break things. I’m hoping it’s something to do with my magic, not that I’m just kind of rubbish with technology. Regardless of the truth, the former is a good cover story.”

Newt was a second year now. He’d arrived arrived at Hogwarts blissfully ignorant to the inter-house politics and had settled in to Hufflepuff as if it were a random allocation. In fact, it took the boy almost a month before he cottoned on to the fact that sorting wasn’t a game of chance, much to his classmates’ amusement.

“It makes sense.” He said. “Looking back. I’ve always been the loyal type. I like caring for people. Kind of wanted to be a disability support worker when I finished high school — the bonus being they don’t really have to deal with computers much. I’m really good with people, it’s just everything else that’s confusing.”

“So Hufflepuffs are kind…?” Crowley said slowly, wondering if he should be taking notes.

“No, no, not like that.” Newt shook his head. The redhead was missing the point.

“It’s what you are that makes what a Hufflepuff is, not the other way around. The houses are just a place to find like-minded people. You’re still supposed to be true to yourself.”

Crowley thought back to Hastur abandoning him on the platform.

_Find your people._

Well, he’d supposedly done that, but Crowley was sure this wasn’t the way Hastur had meant it. His people were supposed to be the Crowley clan and their loyal associates. For now, Newt and the angel were his people. Whether this was an interim or permanent arrangement, the boy wasn’t quite sure.

He was still coming to terms with what he wanted it to be.


	4. Quibblers Over Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale stands on a table, calls out some bigots like a sass-master, and receives a secret message.  
Crowley reads the Quibbler religiously for their new magical creature discoveries, pass it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night, oh boy, am I really neglecting my responsibilities. We stan a BAMF Aziraphale moment.

Though Crowley liked Newt, he went out of his way to spend time with Aziraphale in preference. This had gotten him in to some sticky situations.

Aziraphale, for the most part, hadn’t let Slytherin change him. He spent breakfast with a book propped up beside his plate, only pausing to glare at his fellow table mates when they swore too loudly. He was happy to tell Ligur to stop using the term “mud blood” lest he dob her in to their head of house. She made a rude gesture at him as he returned to his book. The boy didn’t mind. He wasn’t looking to make friends, he already had one.

“Psst,” someone joined him at the table, sliding on to the bench seat, face obscured by an edition of the Quibbler. Over the top peeked a shock of red hair.

“What’re you doing?” Aziraphale hissed at Crowley.

“Just wanted to give you this in person. Make sure it got to you alright.” Crowley pushed a piece of parchment along the table. “Later, angel.” The boy stood up, magazine still aloft and walked smack bang in to Hastur.

“Mind where you’re going twerp— oh!” Hastur’s face broke in to a broad grin when he realised who it was. “Look, boys. It’s the traitor.” He cawed. His two friends who could easily be mistaken for the wiry boy’s bodyguards cackled.

“Hastur, please.” This was the first words spoken between the two of them in the fortnight since the sorting. “I didn’t mean to—“

His brother, who had never been terribly kind, looked downright vengeful. He grabbed Crowley by the hood of his robe and lifted the small boy off the ground.

“Didn’t mean to shit on our family and everything we stand for? I knew you were a sad excuse for a Crowley but you’re actually pathetic.”

Crowley squeaked. Aziraphale had risen from his seat and was eyeing the situation warily, aware that he was ill equipped to defend his friend. He knew a few basic spells. He could unlock doors and disarm and turn a pin in to a feather and… it was all bloody useless!

“Put him down, Hastur,” Aziraphale’s voice shook. He brought his fists up as if threatening to fight the boy, before realising quite how silly he must look and lowering them.

Hastur clucked and all but tossed Crowley aside, rounding on Aziraphale.

“Angel-boy. Didn’t take very long to show your true colours, hanging around with filth like that. Don’t get me wrong, I really wanted to believe that you could be one of us but, well,” he looked pointedly down at the boy. Instead of cowering, Aziraphale took a deep breath and stood on his seat, so that he was a foot above the bully.

“What’re you—“

“Anyone who wants to come over and sit at the Slytherin table is more than welcome, anytime. Lord knows we could do with some conversations that aren’t about how much so-and-so family’s bribed the ministry with.” He looked pointedly at Ligur, who sank in her seat as some of the other students tittered. At this positive reception, he thought back to other conversations he’d been privy to over the last few weeks.

“Hey, Tyler!” A ruddy faced sixth year looked at him in alarm. “Has your father been charged with sympathising with muggle abolitionists or is the trial still ongoing?” There was an oooh from his audience. Crowley had picked himself up off the floor and was staring up at his friend with pride. Aziraphale briefly made eye contact and, did the angel just wink?

The Slytherin stepped up on to the dining table, kicking aside trays of toast to clear a stage. By now the entire hall had stopped to watch the commotion. The heads of houses looked on warily, unsure if to intervene but equally interested in how it would all pan out.

“Melina.” Aziraphale clapped and swung around so that he was staring down another first year. She’d called him a pansy on a couple of occasions and tried to start a rumour he was a squib to boot and _oh boy _did he have the dirt on her.

“So when you said that you thought that muggle borns should not be allowed in to the Ministry, did you mean that they shouldn’t be entitled to work there because of their blood status, or were you more suggesting that there should be a seperate government for, what was it you said, the fake wizards?”

There were boos from the audience, other houses had begun to throw toast at the offenders. Like a game show host about to call the major prize, Aziraphale was in his element.

“That’s enough!” Suddenly there were arms pulling the boy off the table. He struggled, but Beez was somehow stronger, and the head student dragged Aziraphale towards the exit of the hall.

“What the fuck was that?” They hissed him his ear.

Aziraphale, still a bit delirious and unable to grasp what had just happened, cast his mind back to the beginning of the altercation.

“They were hurting my friend.” He said defiantly. “I just want to be allowed to sit with him.”

They were out in the entrance hall now, which was unpopulated after the commotion had begun and drew everyone in.

Beez put the boy down and crouched down ever-so-slightly.

They didn’t look angry, just resigned.

“Look,” they sighed. “I get it. It’s a difficult adjustment to make but we have to stick to our own sides. I understand you think you’re friends with Crowley but wouldn’t it be better to find someone in Slytherin to hang out with? I’m sure you’d have much more in common.”

Aziraphale shuddered as he thought of Melina. He sincerely hoped not.

He had never felt this kind of anger before, and the thought of having to give up Crowley made his head spin and his vision cloud.

“I don’t want a different friend.” He pouted, the tears had begun to fall.

Beez looked around hurriedly to check that no one was listening.

“Kid, I’ve been through what you’ve been through. It’s not pleasant, but some people are just… not tolerant. Life’s easier when you stick to your own side. You can’t go about betraying the people you’ll be living with for the next seven years.”

“But they’re wrong!” Hissed the boy. “Everything they say, it’s so so…”

“Shit,” Beez finished. “I know, I’ve been wanting to take out that Melina girl as soon as she first sat at our table.” They adjusted their robes and their badge.

“I privately hope someone with a bit less to lose puts her in her place.” Light grey eyes smiled at the boy.

“I think you did a great job, kiddo.” They ruffled Aziraphale’s curls before the pair were interrupted by a bellowed “Angel!”

Crowley was sprinting towards them, grinning from ear to ear. He threw himself at Aziraphale, and the other boy didn’t even care when Sally stuck her face out and gave the boy a nudge of gratitude too.

“That. Was. Amazing.” His golden eyes glowed with wonder. “How’d you know how to say all that?”

Beez had slunk off in to the background, gone to talk to a burly Gryffindor that Aziraphale didn’t give much thought to.

He shrugged, and smiled, and listened as Crowley gave him a play-by-play of his favourite moments. He felt something in his pocket and remembered the parchment that Crowley had passed to him. He wasn't going to take a word of Beez's advice, they wouldn't need to pass secret notes in the future. He was friends with a Hufflepuff and damn anyone that tried to get in their way.

As such, he never thought to read what Crowley had been trying to communicate to him. Figuring it was something the boy could say in person, the note went all but forgotten until that fateful week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Crowley's smuggled a dangerous plant in to the castle and everything goes very wrong.


	5. The Common Daisy and Related Pests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley steals a plant from the Greenhouses only for it to put him in grave danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry, this is a bit of an angsty one near the end. 
> 
> Crowley just wanted to be in green house, okay, and when he didn't get in to Slytherin he's had to find other ways to reach his goals.
> 
> Of course Crowley would be the Herbology King. I am not the herbology king and thus apologise for my pathetic knowledge of plants. Also featured: my pathetic grasp of latin and inability to think of examples of books that Anathema and Aziraphale would bond over.

Professor Longbottom was a very gifted man. Crowley had eagerly researched the teacher before starting at Hogwarts, adamant that Herbology would be his favourite class by far. Professor Longbottom was a very gifted man, but also very forgetful, and the Hufflepuff had gleefully capitalised on this fact in only his second week of classes.

You see, the professor had accidentally left Greenhouse 6 unlocked.

Greenhouse 6 wasn’t an area that the students were allowed in, not even the OWL students. It was, as far as Crowley could gather, a sort of experimental greenhouse where the professor sought to create weird and wonderful new cross species. It was not unheard of to hear loud explosions from the grounds well in to the night, and upon investigation, to realise they were coming from the dimly lit greenhouse. Crowley felt he’d maxed out the potential of muggle plants, suspecting that his parents weren’t heeding his care instructions of the lush array of orchards he’d left at home. They’d be dead by Christmas.

He wanted a cooler plant.

As the professor puttered up the front steps of the castle to lunch, Crowley snuck through the ajar door of Greenhouse 6, pulling it to as he stepped in to the verdant wonderful.

“Holy smokes,” he breathed. The walkway was lined with fernery that caught the light, shifting from dark green to blue to the purple of dragon scales. Beyond, there was a golden plant that seemed to emit a monotone hum. Upon getting closer, Crowley could see that the hum was the beating of tiny fairy wings — workers who were enthusiastically plucking large golden berries from their stalks and stacking them neatly on the nearest work bench.

Crowley stepped forward and reached out for a berry still attached to the bush. There was a low rumble from the workers, who swiftly tried to converge on the boy’s hand, viciously beating him away from their harvest.

“Alright, alright.”

Other plants emitted small “pops” and “bangs” at varying intervals. There was a moss coloured rock that seemed to be lumbering around under the workbench. Crowley crouched down. Written in the moss was “Anakin”. The rock shifted towards him and the boy realised it was an ancient turtle, eyes misted over like crystal balls. He smiled and patted its shell before continuing on his way.

It was then that he laid eyes on his prize. A small pot sat in a corner bearing flowers with silken pink petals. The flowers were attached to thin vines that swayed lazily despite the lack of a breeze and when the boy reached out to touch them, they gently wound their way up his arm before returning to their station. Crowley had always thought of plants like humans. He talked to them and berated them when they didn’t grow well. He swore each of his orchids had a different personality, much to his family’s exasperation.

But this, this was something more. It was responding to the boy’s touch. He lifted up the pot. On the side, in chalk was scrawled what he took to be the name of the plant:

_Bellus Docendo_

A wizard’s daisy? Crowley had a modest grasp of latin, and was certain it belonged to the same genus as the common daisy. It was really quite beautiful. He looked around the chaotic greenhouse, where plants fizzed and popped and surely the professor wouldn’t notice such a small plant go missing. It was practically stashed out of sight as it was.

Crowley slipped the pot under his cloak and snuck back up to the castle, turning right in the entrance way and hurrying to stash the plant in his trunk before any other student noticed him.

He couldn’t wait to show Aziraphale.

⁂

A couple of weeks passed and the boy was finding it increasingly difficult to get the Slytherin alone to tell him the news. The plant had grown considerably, even in the darkness of his trunk, and now Crowley was wondering if he should repot it. In the evening he’d draw the curtain around his bed, lift it gingerly out of its hiding place and watch the vines curl and dip and sway, sometimes putting out a finger for the plant to curl around.

Crowley found a discarded pail near the gamekeeper’s hut and smuggled it up to his dormitory. The curious plant only just fit in the bucket. Crowley found when he began to dig it up that it had a massive root system, and wondered if the little pot was charmed to be somehow bigger on the inside. It shouldn’t have fit but it did.

Now that the plant was in its new home, the boy had to find a new place to store it. The bucket was too big for him to close his trunk and he had no way of getting the plant through the common room without one of his classmates seeing, so he shoved the plant under his bed and silently prayed that nobody noticed the occasional vine that would peek out from under his doona.

It was only now that Crowley began to question whether this had been a good idea at all.

Aziraphale still hadn’t even seen it.

That was the week that he slipped Aziraphale the note, and his friend had singlehandedly alienated half of his own house.

A few days passed and things between them returned to normal. Crowley waited for the Slytherin to acknowledge his note, to ask about his mysterious plant. But he didn’t.

Crowley tried not to be disappointed, maybe he’d misjudged the boy. He assumed that Aziraphale was ignoring his note because he didn’t want to get caught up in anything less than proper and, certainly stealing from Greenhouse 6 fit that definition. Aziraphale cared too much about silly things, like grades and manners and other people’s opinions, Crowley thought privately, why couldn’t his friend just care about what was _cool_?

His plant, which he’d insightfully named “Bella” was the absolute definition of cool. They were lounging around the lake’s edge on a Saturday afternoon. Newt and his Ravenclaw friend Anathema had taken to hanging out with the duo, which suited Crowley just fine. Anathema was well spoken and warm enough to counteract Newton’s stilted awkwardness. Aziraphale and Anathema got on like a house on fire and Crowley found himself trying not to be jealous as they talked about their favourite authors, wizarding and otherwise, and other topics that were lost on the Hufflepuffs.

Restless to share his secret with someone, Crowley leaned over to Newt.

“Hey, d’you want to see the cool plant I got a while ago?”

Newt frowned, he wasn’t the type to associate “plants” with “cool” but could see how enthusiastic the first year was.

“Yeah, sure.” He paused. “Where’d you get it from?”

Crowley wasn’t about to tell Newt about his adventures in the greenhouses, so he stuck with the first lie that came to him.

“A sixth year sold it to me for a galleon.”

Newt let out a low whistle.

‘That’s a lot for a plant.”

“Hey, it’s really cool.” The younger boy defended, and launched in to an animated description of the plant.

“— It’s a part of the daisy family. Latin name: Bellus Docendo. I was thinking of going to the library later to see if I could find a book about care instructions.”

He cast a look over to Aziraphale and Anathema, who were now in a heated argument about the accuracy of the muggle fantasy genre.

“D’you wanna go now?”

Newt nodded.

⁂

It was difficult to imagine what Madame Pince had looked like in her youth. Nowadays she bore a striking resemblance to an elderly vulture as she roamed the aisle, hissing at students who dared touch her books.

“She scares me,” Crowley watched her from a distance. Newt made a hum of agreement.

“That’s why you can ask about a book for my daisy.”

Newt visibly began to shake.

“No, please don’t make me.” But he was already walking towards the librarian. Then he doubled back to Crowley.

“What now?” The boy hissed.

“Can’t remember the name of flower.”

Crowley grabbed a quill and scribbled it on the top of Newt’s potions homework that he’d been carrying around since it’d been finished lest he lose it.

“Hey!”

But the boy took the paper and shuffled over to Madame Pince. From where Crowley was standing, he could see her shake her head, pointing to the back of the library.

When Newt returned, he was white as a sheet.

“Never make me do that again.” He stammered.

“Well?”

“Well, she said that they don’t have any books on that plant in the regular library, that it might be worth checking the restricted section but I’d need a note from my Herbology teacher to authorise that.”

_The restricted section_? Obviously the lady had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’ll get out a couple of general Herbology books just to be sure, she’s probably never seen it before.”

They left the library, Crowley laden down with books and loudly complaining that Hogwarts could do with a computer or two, and internet connection.

“No, please.” Newt trailed after him. “I’d just gotten away from them.”

⁂

That night Crowley settled on his bed, books spread out in front of him and began to scour each index throughly. Bella curled her vines up on to the boy’s bed, the flowers (now a dark red) danced over the library books. Sally hissed as a warning, but Crowley pushed the snake further in to his pocket.

“Calm down sweet, nobody’s replacing you.”

⁂

It was around 8pm in the Hufflepuff common room. The fire was crackling merrily and Newt had set up on a nearby table with his well worn copy of “Computers for Dummies” when there was a commotion at the portrait door.

“Where is he?” A gruff voice called. “Newton Pulsifer?!”

The boy jumped and hurriedly got to his feet. Nobody ever came looking for him and especially no one this angry.

Professor Longbottom was covered in dirt, cheeks ruddy and eyes widened in alarm.

“Where is it?” He demanded, advancing on the boy. “Madame Pince told me you had it. It’s ridiculously dangerous, such a stupid stunt to pull, boy. You’re lucky I found you in one piece before it grew enough to strangle you!”

Newt’s breath caught in his throat. Oh no, oh no, oh no. He turned and fled up the tower stairs, the professor chasing after him and cursing. The first year dormitory, Newt fumbled with the door and swung it open. The air was heavy, and damp, and trunks were thrown over and spilled their contents on to the floor. Vines had tangled up around bedposts and lamps, their origin tracking back to a bed in the corner.

“Crowley!” Newt yelled and rushed forward. The boy was unconscious, parts of the plant were coiled around his neck and arms. The leaves and red flowers seemed to be branding his skin. Professor Longbottom arrived, took one look at the scene and launched himself at the slowly suffocating boy.

_“Relishio!_

_Diffindo!_

_Relishio!_

_Diffindo!”_

The desperation in the professor’s voice said it all. He kept hacking at the vines with his wand whilst Newt watched in horror, wondering if it was too late for his friend.


	6. Residual Scarring (and Other Marks of Loneliness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout from Crowley's accident leaves the boy fighting for his life. Newt is left to piece together how this all happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /slaps fic/ this bad boy can fit so much angst in it. 
> 
> I'm putting on my heelies and escaping the feelies from now on guys. Next chapter will be them reunited and it will be soft and moving, then might jump forward in time a bit.

The faculty leapt in to action in the crisis and teachers converged on the Hufflepuff common room. Students were sent to bed early by a pallid Professor Sprout, shooing the last stragglers up the stairs before she all but sunk against the stone wall, trembling.

“You can’t be here.” She said sharply, spying the young boy curled up in an armchair by the fire. “Get to bed like the rest of them.” The boy stirred slightly. The woman felt a rage bubbling up inside her. How on earth could she have been so careless as to leave Professor Longbottom to care for the greenhouses? She was getting on in her age, and there was only so much magic could do to slow the wear and tear of the human body. When the Healers had warned her of the progression of the arthritis, she had all but surrendered the teaching position to the younger professor. Instead grading papers and creating lesson plans from the supposed comfort of her office. Professor Sprout had never been comfortable in an office.

The boy raised his head. His face was blotchy, glasses askew and he was clutching a bright yellow book to his chest like a lifesaver.

The witch softened and made her way over to the kid.

“Are you Newton?” She asked kindly, crouching as low as her knees would let her. The boy gulped and nodded.

“Is he going to be okay?” He whispered hoarsely. The professor was keen to avoid that question.

“Do you want to come for a walk with me?” The boy nodded and scrambled to his feet. The teacher glanced at the book he’d discarded in his haste - _Computers for Dummies._

They left through the portrait hole with impeccable timing, for there was a shifting on the stairs as the stretcher was brought down in to the common room, Professor Longbottom leading the procession.

To see it was to have one’s heart ripped from their chest, but looks could be deceiving.

One could make inferences from the sombre scene: the way the prone figure was covered was a white sheet, the professor, who’d not quite recovered himself, red faced and shaking and willing himself not to cry.

But Anthony Crowley wasn’t dead.

Madam Pomfrey appeared and hastened the assembled teachers to carry the stretcher up to the hospital wing. Neville tried to follow as they exited the common room, but the matron held him back.

“Not you,” her voice was stern but kind. “You’re too close to this. You’ve had enough shock for one evening.”

“But I know this plant. I need to fix it, to make things right.” The professor argued. “Please, I couldn’t live with myself if the boy is stuck with those marks.”

Madam Pomfrey bowed her head, they could argue all night but they’d still end up at a stalemate.

“Alright, but don’t get in my way when I’m working. And,” she pressed a hand to the man’s chest, forceful enough that he took an involuntary step backwards. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

Neville bit his lip to stop the protests escape from his lips.

He nodded silently.

They escaped up through darkened corridors in the direction of the hospital wing.

⁂

“It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have believed his stupid story about where he got that plant.” Newt blurted out after a few minutes walking in silence.

Professor Sprout pursed her lips.

“I don’t think even the finest of herbologists could have picked that plant for what it was. Unless, of course, they were intimately familiar with it.”

“Madam Pince said that the book about it was in the restricted section,” he said in a small voice and he’d never felt more stupid. “Of course,”

“_Bellus Docendo_” The professor said wistfully. “Nasty bugger, but you know that now. It translates to “the temptation daisy”, quite apt really as it seems harmless enough, that’s what poor Mr Crowley saw anyway. It’s a plant that, unlike any others, has the capacity to be friendly. The way it responds to touch, to human interaction, draws us in. It’s almost like it’s got a love to give and to those taken by it, they want to feed off of it. It’s a death sentence for lonely souls. They’ll give themselves over entirely, they don’t have much to give, the plant gains power and proceeds to strangle its owner—“

She broke off, aware that the boy next to her was quaking. _Oh Merlin’s pants!_ She’d gone in to teacher mode and had all but forgotten that this boy’s friend was the unfortunate victim. She took a gamble to save face.

“But Mr Crowley will be okay. Luckily we got to him in time. There might be some residual scarring, a bit of time in the hospital wing will fix him up nicely.”

Oh dear, the boy had stopped walking and now dissolved in to wretched sobs.

“I — don’t— understand.” He gasped. “I don’t understand why the plant got to him like that. Crowley, he’s got me, and he’s got Aziraphale, they’re inseparable despite everything. He’s not lonely.” He pleaded, as if the professor could provide some consolidation. Maybe everyone could be vulnerable to the plant’s ways. If Newt had’ve taken it in, would he be the one up in the hospital wing now? The strained look on the professor’s face suggested otherwise.

She patted him gently on the shoulder.

“I think,” she said slowly. “Loneliness isn’t measured by those who love you. It’s a measure of how much love you think you deserve. Mr Crowley is very lucky to have friends such as yourself. Hopefully one day he can believe that you stay for a reason.”

They had done a circle of the ground floor and were once again standing out the front of the common room.

Newt had stopped crying, rather, letting out a few occasional sniffles.

“Best to get to bed.” Said Professor Sprout kindly, giving the boy’s arm a small squeeze.

“Thanks, professor.” And Newt meant it. But as she rounded the corner, the boy doubled back. He wasn’t going back to the dormitories before he’d spoken to Aziraphale.

⁂

Someone was throwing rocks at Anathema’s window. There was only one person who did this and that person lacked subtly.

“Newt!” She opened the window and hissed. “You do know I share a dorm with five other girls, for god’s sake!” As annoyed as she was, she climbed out of bed and slipped on some shoes to go and meet the boy in their usual rendezvous point.

⁂

“_Mother fucking shit_,” Anathema had a knack for complicated charms and swear words. Newt had recounted what had happened as they sat on the steps to the astronomy tower. The astronomy tower was closed off every night except Wednesday’s astronomy classes and Anathema had decided that those alone were so traumatising for students that no one in their right mind would expect them to go there voluntarily at midnight. She called it_ reverse psychology_ and Newt had yet to see it on their course curriculum.

“We can’t wake him up.” She said firmly. Newt stared at her blankly. Of course the first thing they were going to do was tell Aziraphale? Why was Anathema always on a different wavelength? “It would be far too traumatising. Besides, we’ll know more in the morning and then he can get some real news. Something positive rather than staying up all night worrying.”

Oh, maybe he should consider tuning in to her wavelength more often. The girl had a point.

They made a plan to intercept the Slytherin before he got to the dining hall. The Slytherins won’t know until they get to breakfast and hear it from the Hufflepuffs. That’d be an awful way to hear about it. Anathema lamented. _Poor lamb_.

To which Newt had squinted at her and pointed out she was only 2 years his senior.

“He’s a little angel. They’re delicate, you know.” She insisted as they headed back towards their respective common rooms. “Night Newt,”

“Night Ana,”

The boy watched her until she disappeared up the steps to Ravenclaw tower.

Over the course of a year they’d snuck out innumerable times to chat. They’d never been caught. There was something about Anathema’s presence that made him feel warm and safe inside, and after all the disaster that had unfolded, it was a little warmth he’d needed.


	7. The Great Chain of Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds out what happened to Crowley and grapples with the consequences, including the realisation that he could have prevented it all.

There was something wrong but Aziraphale couldn’t quite place it.

The energy in the Slytherin common room when he came down for breakfast was tense, the few paintings on the darkened walls conducting the grave mood with offhanded comments about an “attack overnight”. Needless to say, there hadn’t been much drama in the years following the Battle and now the portrait residents were keen to stir up the students.

The perturbed by the general uneasiness, Aziraphale decided to forgo the common room gossip and left for breakfast. He himself was wondering whether, maybe, there had been a duel between students. A silly way to resolve conflicts, in his opinion, words should suffice— his train of thought was broken as he was accosted by someone, or something in the dungeon hallway.

“Oooft,” the hands pulled him in to a broom cupboard and the door slammed. In the dim light he could see two sets of eyes watching him with a crease of concern.

“We had to find you first.” Came the voice belonging to the hands, which had just relinquished their hold on his robe. Aziraphale relaxed slightly as he recognised Anathema’s voice. He strained in the dark to make out who her companion was and made an entirely valid estimate that her partner in hijinks was

“Crowley?” He peered at the other figure. No too short. Too… Crowley had an aura, a swagger if you will, this other person held themselves like a frightened rabbit.

“That’s why we need to talk to you.” Newt’s voice shook. Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. _Newt — Hufflepuff —_

“Where’s Crowley?” The boy asked sharply. There was a clatter as Newt jumped backwards in to a stack of cleaning supplies.

“God dammit. _Lumos_.” The small space was bathed in light emanating from the tip of Anathema’s wand. Now that Aziraphale could see their expressions properly, the air caught in his throat and he began to shake his head.

“No, no, no, no.” The boy’s voice grew louder, as if to drown out the reality he might be delivered. He didn’t know what was wrong. He didn’t even have confirmation that something had happened to Crowley. But it was too much of a coincidence after the rumours this morning. His mind was capable of jumping to some rather dark conclusions. He’d been worried to say the least about Crowley since the sorting ceremony. The boy had yet to come around to the ineffability of the hat’s decision. There was something else, something dark and depreciating, a distinct lack of something, that tended to follow the redhead. Some might mistake it for apathy, or anger, or maybe even the seed of something evil. If you got closer, something Aziraphale feared he was the first to do in quite some time, it became clear as day: the boy was lonely, trapped in his own world of confusion and self-loathing.

In the vernacular of the muggles with their pharmaceuticals: Crowley was depressed.

Anathema was waiting for the boy to steady his breathing before she said anything. He was white as a sheet and seemed on the verge of a panic attack that would place him in the hospital wing.

⁂

Earlier that morning, Newt had called in a favour with Professor Sprout, asking for an update on his friend (“Too early,” she’d grumbled). She’d consulted with Madam Pomfrey and returned with a look of mild concern that made Newt’s knees begin to shake.

“He’s stable,” the woman assured him. The boy gave her a questioning look, there was a “but”, he was sure.

“He’s going to have some permanent scarring.”

Newt had questions: How bad was it? When could he visit? Would he be out in time for Halloween? Professor Sprout sighed.

“He’ll look different. But, if you asked me personally, as terrible as the circumstances are, it suits him quite well.” Newt baulked. Did she just say that Crowley’s scars suited him? He opened he mouth to say a more school-appropriate variant of “what the fuck?” But the professor ploughed on.

“The matron says he can have one visitor today. He needs his rest. If you want to be that visitor…”

But Newt was shaking his head furiously.

“No?”

“Aziraphale deserves to see him first.”

The professor frowned, unfamiliar with the curious name.

“And he is Crowley’s…?” She didn’t dare put words in to the boy’s mouth, but his insistence was intriguing.

“Best friend.” Newt paused “But I like to think I get people pretty well and I think they’re soulmates.” His mouth was moving despite his brain trying to slam on the brakes. “It’s funny, isn’t it? A Slytherin and a Hufflepuff being _that_ inseparable, like two sides of the same coin. Flies in the face of logic, doesn’t it?” He finally regained control of the babble. The professor had a pensive look on her face and Newt’s heart stopped. Had he crossed a line? Was it against somehow against the rules and he’d just ratted Crowley out to the head of house? Shit, why couldn’t Anathema do all the speaking on behalf of them both? He’d really put his foot it it.

“Maybe not logic,” said the professor. Her face was unreadable as she bid him goodbye, and trailed back towards her office still in her floral nightie.

He’d later told Anathema about the visiting policy. She was in a mood, quite understandably given the circumstances. He decided to keep his little philosophical slip up to himself for now.

⁂

“Crowley is fine.” Anathema gripped Aziraphale’s shoulders as they steered him out of the dungeons. “He’s fine. He’s resting. You can go see him.”

What they’d told the boy was this: Crowley had been keeping a plant in his room and it had attacked him. The professors had got to him in time. He was going to be in the hospital wing for a while. Luckily, Anathema had been in charge of conveying this information and did so firmly and factually in a way only the Ravenclaw could. As she skated over the details of what had happened, Newt found flashes of incident searing in to his mind: the mottle of Crowley’s skin as the plant choked him, the yelling as Professor Longbottom cast spells frantically.

They hadn’t mentioned to their friend about the scarring.

It took a while to get Aziraphale to the hospital wing. The poor boy was shaking with terror, mind racing, imagining the worst.

Newt knocked on the door when they arrived. Madam Pomfrey appeared, took one look at Aziraphale, and sighed.

“What’s happened to him?”

“Nothing.” Said Anathema firmly, pulling the boy forward. “He’s Crowley’s visitor.” The matron shrugged and walked away muttering about the constitution of students these days. Anathema pushed the boy bodily through the door and nodded encouragingly.

“What—?”His halo of curls shook, eyes pleading with Anathema to give him answers she didn’t know. Is he going to be okay? Why did this happen?

“You need to see him, yourself.” She whispered. “He’ll want to see you.”

The boy took a deep breath and nodded, before trailing after the matron as she zigzagged through rows of empty beds. Anathema let the door close behind him and the remaining two stood in the cold hallway, not willing to leave but unsure what to do.

⁂

Crowley woke up in heaven. The walls were a sterilised white. Wide, ornate windows let the sunlight pour through, and there was an angel.

His heart skipped a beat.

The angel was crying.

Aziraphale stood over his friend with blue eyes swimming.

Crowley’s instinct was to make him smile, but as he let an encouraging smile break across his face, he was suddenly thrown back to earth. Back to reality and the pain gripped his entire body.

If he’d every been stung like a stingray, the boy would probably describe the sensation he felt to be like that but a hundred times over. Where the plant had grabbed him now burned white hot and he slowly lifted a hand to touch a mark on his arm. It wasn’t actually burning. But he felt like he was. There was something, his vision swam before him, glinting? He waved his hand and it seemed to catch the light. He chalked it up to the effects of whatever pain medication he was on, because it didn’t seem to be doing much for the pain at any rate.

He turned his focus back to the angel, and was relieved to see that the tears had stopped falling.

“I was so worried.” The boy whispered. “I head that something happened and I thought you were—“ he broke off. Crowley felt another wave of pain hit his body and he tried to suppress the yelp.

The Slytherin grabbed his hand tightly.

“But you’re okay.” Perhaps he said that for the benefit of both of them.

“I think I'm burning in the innermost circle of hell, Angel, if that's your definition of _okay_.” Crowley quipped through the pain.

Aziraphale’s attention was drawn to his friend’s hand. He was tracing patterns on the back and up the boy’s arm.

“It’s actually quite beautiful.” He murmured.

“What is?” Crowley sat up suddenly, instantly regretting it. He brought the other hand in front of his face. Where the pain seared through his skin there were no burn marks in the traditional sense, rather, flecks of gold scattered like freckles over the boy’s skin. As though God Herself had taken gold leaf and strewn it across the boy’s body.

“Is that…” he trailed off.

“Everywhere,” Aziraphale nodded, slightly breathlessly. “Well, not on your face but your neck and your arms and, well, I’m assuming anywhere the plant touched you.”

He couldn’t bring himself to use the word “_strangled_”, even though it was slightly more accurate.

The luminescence of the gold flecks clashed wonderfully with the boy’s shoulder length red hair and amber eyes.

He looked angelic, in Aziraphale’s opinion, though he wouldn’t go saying that aloud.

“Tut, tut, more rest. Out you go!” Madam Pomfrey rounded the curtain, completely ignoring the look of relief and reverence on Aziraphale’s face. His friend was okay.

Crowley squeezed his hand before he made to leave.

“Can I visit again later?’ Aziraphale asked hurriedly, stuffing his hands in to the pockets of his robes, feeling a piece of paper in one.

There was a terse “maybe” in reply and the boy resolved to camp out in the hallway in between classes if there was a chance he’d get to visit even briefly.

He emerged in to the hallway to find Anathema and Newt standing exactly where they’d parted ways.

“Well?” Anathema said, apprehension rising.

“He’s fine.” Aziraphale sobbed tearfully, but smiling with relief. “He’s really, going to be okay.”

The friends linked arms and made their way down to the dining hall.

⁂

The Slytherin hung back as the others jostled to snag a few pieces of stale toast before the breakfast spread disappeared. He pulled out the piece of parchment and remembered the commotion a few weeks’ back. He’d been so caught up in everything, that he’d never given a second thought to what Crowley had been trying to communicate with him.

_Angel,_

_I found a cool plant in the greenhouses — it’s a special daisy. Goes by the name “_Bellus Docendo_“ I don’t know much about it but I want to show you, it’s so awesome and maybe we could go to the library and research it later. Although I’m sure you’ve probably read about it already._

_\- C_

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted, remembering the “Cursed and the Divine Botanists’ Guide” that sat in his trunk. He had read about that flower. He could have saved Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I'm weaving in a lot of little threads that I might pick up on later in the piece. Keyword is might. This was supposed to be a one-shot originally, it's getting out of hand.
> 
> Thank you for the lovely feedback on the last few chapters <3


	8. Sports Commentary and Corridor Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets released from the hospital wing, and is immediately accosted by girls who love his "bad boy" status.  
Aziraphale sees something he doesn't want to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobia. Hit the <3 button if you want to strangle Helen.

Crowley couldn’t look at himself.

He hadn’t looked at himself.

It was easy enough, he’d been in so much pain the few days after he’d woken up that he’d barely moved an inch, in fact. Not that he really needed to, Aziraphale came and visited him four times a day, reading to him, telling him ridiculous stories about what he missed in class, and on one Saturday, narrating the quidditch match from the the window beside Crowley’s bed, aiding by a pair of muggle binoculars and an absolutely appalling knowledge of the sport.

“The Ravenclaw with one of the hitty things—“

“Bat,”

“Yes, yes, that. They’re flying.”

Crowley groaned.

“Yes angel, it’s quidditch, they’re all flying, what’s actually happening? Nevermind.”

The Slytherin huffed and lowered his binoculars.

“How are you feeling anyway?”

Crowley shifted slightly and let out a whine of pain. That was answer enough.

“I feel like I’ve run a marathon. All of my muscles are burning.”

Aziraphale perched on the side of the bed. They hadn’t actually talked about what had happened at all, the boy had been so intent on making Crowley smile over the last few days, he’d pushed down the questions he’d wanted to ask.

The apology he had to make.

He wasn’t quite sure that the Hufflepuff would forgive him. He resolved to hold on to it until it burned at his insides, still nothing like the pain the other boy had had to endure.

“Did you want to see?” Aziraphale asked, almost reverently, and held up the mirror from the bedside table. Crowley flinched and shook his head.

“Don’t be morbid. I don’t want to see them, ever.”

The scars all over his body. He could feel them prickling beneath his pyjamas.

Aziraphale bit his lip.

“They’re actually quite beautiful.” This wasn’t the first time he’d said that, and now Crowley was beginning to think he said it with sincerity rather than as an attempt to cheer the boy up.

“You look like an angel.”

Crowley scoffed.

“No, you’re the angel, angel. Okay, let me see.” Crowley peered curiously in the mirror and his breath caught in his throat. Small smatterings of gold clung to his neck and shoulders, glinting in the soft light from the windows around. It was everywhere but his face, clashing violently with the boy’s red hair, and he didn’t like it that much but the way the Slytherin was looking at him made him think that it wasn’t too bad after all.

“It’s not awful.” He forced out. Aziraphale smiled softly.

“I think it’s stunning.” A small chill went up the Hufflepuff’s spine.

“So,” he tried to prop himself up on his elbows and regretted the sudden movement. “When can I get out of here?”

It took almost a week before the pain subsided to a dull ache and Madam Pomfrey reluctantly let Crowley go back to classes. Aziraphale, Newt and Anathema met him in the corridor and they walked down to breakfast together as Crowley peered at his timetable.

“Double history of magic?” He made to turn back towards the hospital wing but Aziraphale gripped his arm firmly.

“Nice try,”

He’d never felt such trepidation walking in to the great hall. Not even for the sorting ceremony. As they walked through the corridors, students erupted in to whispers upon seeing the shimmering scars on Crowley’s neck. Eventually the rumours had settled somewhere near the truth and the school knew what had actually happened.

“Bloody hell.” Crowley hissed, as a fifth year nearly walked in to a stone gargoyle whilst gawking at him. “Surely there’s something more interesting to look at.” His tone sounded almost pleading. He didn’t like the attention one bit.

Anathema leaned in slightly.

“It’s because you do look, interesting, that is.” She whispered slyly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Newt interjected sharply.

Anathema surpassed a giggle.

“I don’t think he’ll have any problem with the ladies, is what I’m saying.” She waggle her eyebrows and Newt began to sulk.

The whispers broke out as they entered the dining hall, spreading across the tables in a wave. Anathema, it seemed, was right, and by now they shouldn’t be so surprised by this fact, Crowley was flooded with admirers, most of whom were female so much so that he struggled to get a seat.

“Aziraphale!” He called over the crowd, but the Slytherin had broken away and slunk off to his table. The red head tried to eat his toast whilst everyone around him pressed him for details of his wild stunt.

“You’re a real bad boy.” There was no hiding the flirtatious tone in Helen’s voice. She was a Hufflepuff third year, Crowley remembered, she hadn’t actually given him the time of day until now. When he tried to leave the table, the girl hung off his arm. He craned his neck towards the Slytherin table.

“What’re we waiting for?” She whispered seductively. Crowley wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the “we” from, he certainly hadn’t invited her along, but he shrugged.

“I’m waiting for my friend.”

“Oh, that strange Slytherin boy?”

Crowley frowned. That was an odd description. It wasn’t said it malice, thought, rather a hint of pity.

“If you mean it’s strange he’s not in Gryffindor like his brother…” Crowley trailed off, trying not to get worked up.

She gave a musical laugh.

“No, not that. He’s obviously, well, —“

Well, what?

She gripped Crowley’s arm tighter and began to steer him out of the hall, despite his protests. She turned to face him when they were in a secluded corridor, concern written all over her face.

“You do know, right?”

Crowley scowled.

“Know what?”

The girl flung her head back in exasperation.

“My god, do you not have eyes? Or ears? It’s all anyone ever talks about. He’s not right.” She said pointedly.

The boy regarded her blankly.

“You should really start hanging around with some other people, for your reputation and stuff.” She sniffed and seemed to indicate she meant her.

“Look, if it’s because he’s a Slytherin that’s ridiculous.” Crowley raised his voice, fighting off the urge to slap her.

“No, well, it’s just, how do I put this…” she wrung her hands. “He’s quite obviously gay and, well, you guys are so close. My god you even call him “Angel.” It’s… not a good look… for a guy like you.”

Crowley’s brain jammed, that was a lot to unpack. He wasn’t quite familiar with what she was insinuating, so he rounded on what he did understand.

“What do you mean, a guy like me?” He said slowly.

She stepped forward, looking down at him through her eyelashes.

“Eligible, smart, devilishly handsome.” They were so close and she leant down slightly to catch his lips on hers. Crowley’s first instinct was to pull back, but she snaked her arms around his shoulders and he found himself leaning in instead. This was new. He wasn’t quite sure he liked it. He let her continue for a few seconds before pulling away breathless.

“I’m sorry, that’s… no.” He stammered._ I don’t want this_. She just smiled coyly at him and lowered her arms.

“Come and find me.” She whispered in his ear and took off down the corridor. Leaving the red head breathless and confused and strangely sick to the stomach. He was so caught up in trying to figure out what happened, that he didn’t see someone with a halo of white curls turn on heel and disappear around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the next chapter, it’s going to be a bit of angst. I’ve been trying to decide how to move the story forward through the years and our boys are going to take a break from each other for a while. 💔  
But this duo is all about the slow burn, after all.  
Thanks for all your lovely comments!


	9. The Way Things Are Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys grow apart until Anathema steps in and sets things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two hours whew! Bit of a time jump in this, just wanted to get past the angst so my mind could rest, the next few chapters will be comfort and fluff.

A day or two passed where Crowley couldn’t find Aziraphale. It was on the third day he realised that the boy was pointedly avoiding him.

So he waited, and he thought things through.

He hadn’t been raised under a rock, and he knew what Helen had been suggesting, but he just found that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Whether or not it was even true.

He wasn’t about to go and ask the angel if what Helen said was true, of course. It shouldn’t matter anyway. They were best friends.

⁂

Days rolled in to weeks and Aziraphale all but disappeared.

Crowley still hung around with Newt and Anathema, although Helen tagged along and Crowley didn’t have the guts to tell her “no”. That’s how their relationship evolved. Crowley’s inability to say no.

And then it was Christmas and Crowley stayed at the castle, unwilling to face his family, whilst Beez and Hastur went home for the holiday. They’d become a bit more friendly with him since the accident.

“There’s a bit of the family traits coming through.” Beez punched his arm after he was dealt detention from Professor Sprout for his breaking and entering. They weren’t enemies, rather, acquaintances but they hadn’t warmed to him enough to invite him home for Christmas.

They had, however, invited Aziraphale.

The two had barely spoken over the last few months and Crowley found that whenever he approached the Slytherin the boy’s mouth would set in a hard line and he’d refuse to make eye contact. He was almost about to start pleading, unable to work out what he’d done wrong, when Helen sauntered over and grabbed his hand. Aziraphale didn’t react, eyes staring blankly at the ground, and that angered Crowley for some reason.

“Let’s get away from here.” She whispered slyly.

“Sure.” Said the red head confidently, and it was the first time he’d explicitly said yes.

⁂

So Aziraphale went back to the Crowley household and Crowley spent the holiday huddled up beside the fire with Helen stroking his hair. He didn’t hate it, all the affection and the kissing, but neither did he like it. He just didn’t see the point and yet, being locked at the lips was Helen’s favourite activity. They hardly talked.

She was nice. Painfully boring, but nice enough. She cared for him, and looked out for him, and spent the evenings tracing his scars with her fingers and Crowley felt nothing.

⁂

First year bled in to Second and Crowley started to know who he was. Or, rather, he began to define it.

He’d tried out for the Quidditch team and scored the position of Keeper based on the amount of scores he prevented during try outs. Helen was in the stands cheering, her dark blonde hair glinting in the sun. Crowley wished there was someone else cheering for him.

⁂

He’d made a few friends in his house. Newt was still his closest, but he’d finally begun to accept that Hufflepuff was where he belonged and stopped pushing the others away.

⁂

By the end of Second year, Crowley would tell himself he’d forgotten all about the angel. But it didn’t stop him from craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the boy in the dining hall, or watching him reading by the lake from his dormitory window.

⁂

Crowley grew tall and lanky. His gold scars remained. His hair fell to his shoulders and Helen liked to braid it when they sat together in the common room. Aziraphale, he observed, began to look more mature. It was a convenient alternative to “sad” or “cold” a description that made Crowley’s heart ache a bit. His hair became, if at all possible, even more blindingly white. He filled out a bit, with the stockiness that would probably make him a good beater if he at all cared for the sport. He had friends in Hastur and his gang, after Beez moved on. They weren’t close friends, but there was a mutual respect. Aziraphale was a Crowley and Anthony wasn’t.

⁂

On the train home, Helen had been trying to convince him to come to her house and meet her parents. He’d objected up until now, but was beginning to consider it as a better alternative to spending the summer locked in his room listening to his family and Aziraphale laughing downstairs. It was like he didn’t exist to the boy anymore. He definitely didn’t exist to his family, save Beez who was rarely around these days anyway.

The pair of them found a carriage and Helen continued to coax him to say yes.

“They’ll love you. You’re so handsome.” She crooned and Crowley blushed. Privately he was wondering if Helen took stock of any of his other qualities. Did he have other qualities? Oh, he was on the quid ditch team, she loved to tell people that.

The train began to pull out from the station when there was a knock on the door.

“Can we come in? there’s nowhere else to sit.” Anathema stood in the doorway, hand clasping Newt’s. Crowley’s face broke out in to a wide grin.

“Finally, oh my god.” He laughed good-naturedly. “It’s been the most painful part of the last two years, watching you two dance around each other.”

“Really?” Anathema quirked an eyebrow and Crowley felt a stabbing in his chest.

“Yeah, of course, come take a seat.”

The two couples sat opposite each other in a comfortable silence, watching the countryside pass by.

Helen cleared her throat.

“Anathema, I was just trying to persuade Crowley to visit my parents.”

Anathema’s expression was unreadable.

“And what did he say?” She replied.

“Well, he hasn’t said yes yet but I’m working on him.” Helen knocked the red head playfully with her shoulder. Anathema’s mouth tightened.

There was a hurried knock at the door. Aziraphale was waving at Newt and Anathema, unable to see the other occupants of the carriage, obscured by the door’s curtains.

She waved him in and he stopped dead when he saw his friends had company.

“Oh, ah, errr, I’ll catch up with you later Anathema.” He muttered but the girl grabbed his hand and dragged him down on the seat next to her.

“Nonsense,”

There was a tense silence that Helen seemed determined to break.

“So, Anathema, don’t you think it’s a good idea if Crowley meets my parents?”

The newcomer frowned as Anathema fought to stay civil.

“I don’t think he wants to. He’s just too kind to tell you no.” She said firmly. Helen just laughed.

“Oh, he’ll want to. Won’t you darling?” Crowley felt sick, Aziraphale’s deep blue eyes were boring in to his skull and the rest of the room was waiting for an answer. He felt his throat clench.

“Sorry, I need some air.” He stood up hurriedly, dropping Helen’s hand and running out in to the corridor.

Anathema followed and stopped him, gripping his shoulders gently.

“Crowley, you have to learn how to say no.” She whispered. “She’s been pushing you around for so long now. If I’m honest I don’t know how this relationship even started in the first place.”

She paused. She did have an inkling, and it had to do with the Slytherin.

“Get Aziraphale out of there.” The red head hissed in reply. “She doesn’t like him.”

Well, that answered her inkling.

Anathema glared at him.

“Are you telling me that you broke it off with your best friend because a girl told you to?”

“I didn’t “break it off” there was nothing to break off, we weren’t dating!” Crowley replied shrilly. “That’s just what she wanted to think.”

Anathema held up a hand.

“Are you telling me… that… SHE…” she was bubbling with rage.

Crowley scuffed his foot on the ground.

“She said that someone like me shouldn’t be friends with someone like him.” He whispered morosely.

“Right, right,” Anathema’s eyes flashed. “And do you actually agree?”

“Well, of course I didn’t, at the time.”

Anathema was storming back in to the carriage, rounding on the girl.

“Get the fuck out.” She said through gritted teeth. Newt leapt up and restrained Anathema as Helen got hastily to her feet, looking confused. “You do not get to tell him who to be friends with. You do not get to make judgements about my friends. I should hex you.” She spat, Newt muttered in her ear that that wasn’t a good idea.

Helen left wordlessly, Crowley hanging around in the doorway. Anathema gave him an encouraging look and the boy suddenly had more confidence than he’d had the the last year of their relationship. Helen looked back as though expecting him to follow.

“I— Uh— I don’t want to meet your parents… because we’re breaking up.” His voice shook, but was also loud enough that it attracted the attention of the carriage’s other occupants. Helen let out a screech and stormed off.

Anathema grabbed her friends arm and dragged him in to the carriage, where Aziraphale and Newt sat shell-shocked and wondering what was going on.

“Aziraphale, I think Anthony has some things to say to you.”


	10. The Truth and Variants Thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley faces Aziraphale and their year and a half of silence before discovering the angel feels like the Hufflepuff "deserves better" than him 
> 
> TW: Homophobia - both internalised and implied.

⁂

Crowley stared across the compartment at Aziraphale, who sat with his arms crossed and a frown.

He looked so different from what the Hufflepuff remembered.

Maybe it was because, somewhere along the line, Crowley stopped looking properly, searching for his ex-friend in every crowd but not actually seeing him properly.

Now, the boy was right in front of him and his icy glare made Crowley shake.

* * *

_Where do you start?_

Over a year with next to no contact. Acquaintances passing in the hallways. Silence over family dinners. He wasn’t sure he knew who Aziraphale was anymore. If he was still the boy he’s made friends with. He looked downcast and hardened and cynical and suddenly the dark green of his robe suited him. He looked frightening. Crowley wanted to ask what had happened, but so much had happened that they wouldn’t know where to begin.

Anathema seemed to sense that neither was going to talk first.

“D’you mind if I take the lead?” She squeezed Crowley’s hand. Newt now sat next to Aziraphale, he looked like he was going to take the other boy’s hand for support, before thinking better of it. Crowley nodded and found himself glaring at the floor as Anathema began to speak.

“It has come to my attention, that there have been a few issues lately.”

At this, Crowley couldn’t help but snort slightly. Trust Anathema to describe over a year of radio silence as a “_few issues_”.

“Shush,” she frowned. “The way I understand it, Crowley had been given the impression that he had to choose between Helen and his friendship with you, Aziraphale. And, naturally, this bloody idiot made the wrong choice and I think he wants to apologise.”

Wow, way to put words in his mouth. Crowley was distantly aware that Anathema was bending the truth somewhat — or, rather, omitting certain details. She hadn’t said anything about why Helen didn’t want him to associate with Aziraphale. Crowley felt sick with guilt, but it wasn’t like he acted on that wish. He was well prepared to tell the girl to go shove it. No, Aziraphale had started ignoring him first. Nevertheless, the coincidence of events still made Crowley feel wholly responsible. He wanted the other boy to know the truth.

“Can I?” He tugged on Anathema’s sleeve and she looked over. “Can I tell him?” She nodded encouragingly and sat back. Aziraphale hadn’t moved a centimetre since this conversation had began, frozen to the spot like a frightened rabbit.

“Ah,” Crowley cleared his throat and trained his eyes on his favourite piece of the floor rather than look at the other. “So, uh, I don’t know what happened, okay? I just feel really guilty about it. Like I did something, or said something, to make you mad. But there was Helen, telling me that I couldn’t hang around with people like you and then you were ignoring me and so I just rolled with it. I thought you’d come around. Maybe I should have tried a bit harder, to talk to you I mean. I don’t even know what made you start avoiding me. But then, Helen kept telling me that I’d made the right choice and you weren’t there and I didn’t know what to do.” He could feel the tears beginning to form.

“Please, tell me what I did.”

Aziraphale blinked, and his face softened slightly at the confession, but then reverted back to thinly veiled anger.

“People like me?” He spat, and tugged at his robe. “Does she know who your family is? The biggest bunch of Slytherins that walked the earth since the Black family.”

Crowley shook his head and felt Anathema’s hand tighten around his in warning, or support. He didn’t know anyone.

_How did he say it? He didn’t want it to sound accusatory. He didn’t even know it was true. He didn’t even care, so why did he feel the need to say it out loud?_

Oh, yeah, because he owed Aziraphale an explanation.

“I’m an idiot.” He sighed and Aziraphale almost cracked a smile at this. “Helen told me that I shouldn’t hang out with you because — _fuck _— because everyone’s saying your gay. And I know that it’s just rumour and I don’t fucking care regardless, what is this, the 19th century? I still can’t believe people feel like it’s okay to speculate, let alone judge people based on their preferences. Then you were ignoring me, and Helen was always there, and God I didn’t love her, most of the time I struggled to like her but she was there—“ the tears were falling freely now, as Crowley scrambled to justify actions he knew were, deep down, unforgivable.

But then Aziraphale held up a hand and the red head fell silent. It was a testament to how much he’d matured in the last few years, Aziraphale had plunged the compartment in to absolute silence with one commanding gesture.

“I forgive you.” He said softly.

Crowley nearly collapsed at the words.

“What? You shouldn’t forgive me. I’m unforgivable. I was horrible to you—“

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted. “We were horrible to each other. You said it yourself, I was the one who started ignoring you.”

“Why?” The question came out as a hurt whisper.

The boy sighed and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling, slowly forming a version of the truth.

“I was jealous. I saw all the attention you were getting after the accident, from people who didn’t even care about you before hand and I just — just figured that those were your people, and you didn’t need me anymore. You got an upgrade.” He finished weakly.

Crowley hissed.

“Don’t say that!”

Aziraphale gave him a broken smile.

“And they were right, after all.” He added.

Crowley frowned.

“About… about the gay thing.” He lowered his voice to whisper the last words. “Or, at least I think they’re right.” He stared out the window for a second. “I don’t really know. Either way, you deserve better.”

Crowley made an aborted noise in the back of his throat and suddenly he was pushing Newt out of the way so that he could sit next to the angel.

He wrapped his arms around the boy, silvery hair tickling his face. Aziraphale had begun to cry.

Crowley didn’t have the words. The words to express how painful it was to hear the boy say something like that. To know that he believed that. To think that he was somehow expecting Crowley to abandon him because of it. But not just expecting… giving it his blessing… because he thought that Crowley deserved better.

“No, no, no, no.” Was all Crowley could muster. He rocked his sobbing friend back and forth. “They’re wrong, they’re so so wrong. Fuck them all. You’re wrong too angel, you deserve the world. I don’t deserve you, but I think I’ll stay nonetheless.”

Aziraphale gasped into the boy’s shoulder and lifted his head slightly. Tears clung to his lashes, and the sunlight pouring through the window made him all the more angelic. Crowley thought back to that moment in the hospital wing, when Aziraphale had looked at his scars in wonder, and called them beautiful. He could say much this same for this moment, but he didn’t find the courage.

They broke apart and Anathema began a slow clap.

“Well done, idiots.” She said, beaming at them. “Only took you a year and a half to communicate. Are we all on the same page now?”

Aziraphale gave a wet laugh.

“I think so, my dear. Thank you.”

Anathema rolled her eyes with a smirk. “Now, where are we going?”

Crowley gave her a questioning look.

“We’re going home,” he said slowly, like maybe the girl’s amazing brain had just checked out.

“But where is home?”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up in understanding.

And suddenly the four friends were whispering conspiratorially, making plans for a summer together.

⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyy! Finished the first instalment of the series. The next entry will begin with a prologue describing their shared summer, because I think they have a lot to catch up on, and then jump forward in to the school year.
> 
> Third year is going to focus on their self-esteem, because it's obviously lacking. Some difficult conversations to be had, but it will be punctuated with lots of magic and fluff!
> 
> Comments are appreciated & if you have any ideas to add to the story please let me know, would love to have audience input!

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to do an in-depth character analysis justifying my house choices and may at some point, because it may seemed counterintuitive to some, but this is where our boys belong!  
I'm going to speed things up and look at their relationship, as much as I love Hogwarts and want to put these boys through their paces in every aspect of wizarding life...  
*Ben Wyatt voice* "It's about the pining"
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [@sorrens](https://sorrens.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please feel free to browse my other Good Omens fics. I've written a few AUs, some angst, some crack, some questionable use of internet humour, basically ineffable husbands in many flavours.


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